Insider
by Vermilion Angel
Summary: What's wrong with Bodie?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make nothing. Purely an amusing diversion.

Thanks to Pony for the Beta, don't know how I survived without ya' .

**Insider**

By Vermilion angel

**10 a.m., Tuesday, 3****rd**** August**

Doyle's lounging on the rest room sofa like he's at home, reading _The Sun _and drinking tea from the chipped mug. I'm sitting at the plastic table with _The Mirror_. It's a tabloid rag, but the way me head's feeling, it's about all I can stand.

Doyle snorts at something, and I look over, raising an eyebrow. He waves the paper at me. "You seen this?"

I shake my head, and my brain sloshes about, rolling the room like a ship at sea.

"Some daft bugger's chained himself to Cleopatra's Needle."

"Why?" I ask, not really interested.

Doyle shrugs. "Protesting something."

That's dead helpful, that. I shake my head again, and regret it. I'm fighting down a serious case of vertigo just sitting in this chair. I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands, pressing my palms into my eyes to make the feeling stop… but that just makes it worse.

"Everything all right?" Doyle sounds worried. I can imagine the look on his face, too: that expression he pulls to cover up his worrying. But it's far more telling.

Oh, it's not time for that now! A familiar feeling creeps up my gut, and I stand quickly to stagger to the door. I just about make it to the loos before losing my breakfast.

I feel pitiful, holding onto the sink while I rinse out my mouth. My reflection looks pitiful, too, like I've just crawled out from under a bush.

The door opens slightly. Doyle peeks around the corner and then steps inside. "Okay?"

Okay? Do I look okay? Do I usually start the day puking up my bleedin' guts? "Yeah," I mutter sarcastically -- stupid questions and all that.

Doyle raises his eyebrows and looks at me. "Hangover?"

I wish. Feels more like I swallowed a dozen slugs. Oh, God, here it comes again!

I need to stop doing that. I've thrown up till there's nothing left. My stomach hurts like hell, and I'm wrapped around this filthy bog.

Doyle, bless 'im, peels me off the floor and helps me stand up. "I think you should go home, mate."

That's Doyle for you, sharp as a bleedin' tack. I look up at him and try to scowl. From the way he snickers, I assume I've fallen short.

"Why'd you even bother coming in?"

"Was fine earlier." I hardly sound like me. My voice comes out all croaky and weak. I can't deny it; I'm sick now. My stomach's all cramped up, and the vertigo hasn't stopped. I feel hot and cold all over. I'm leaning pretty heavily on Doyle, but he isn't complaining. I'm glad, because at the moment, I don't think I could stand alone.

"Well, you're not fine now." Doyle again displays his incredible gift for the obvious; no wonder he did so well with the police. "Come on. I'll take you home."

I think about protesting. But, right now, crawling into bed sounds dead good. Doyle practically has to drag me to the car. Thank God, we don't meet anyone else on the way. I don't know where they are, but I'm glad. There's no need for everyone to see me like this.

Doyle dumps me into his Capri and then goes off to inform someone we're leaving. I pull my arms around my stomach and shiver. It's about seventy degrees today, but I'm freezing. Yet, I'm sweating, too. I bet I look a real treat.

Doyle returns, slumping into his seat with all the grace of a three-legged donkey, and looks me over. "Hope this isn't catching."

Me an' all, mate; me an' all. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy… well, okay, maybe I would. But I wouldn't wish it on Doyle. Besides, I don't want to have to play nurse. Then, again, I probably owe him just for getting me this far. I'm a big lad, and it's not easy carting my sorry arse around.

Doyle's waiting for me to say something. Did he ask me a question? He rolls his eyes and starts the engine, pulling away with his customary flourish. That sends everything -- both stomach and brain -- into a tailspin. I don't know what the hell's going on anymore; so I clamp my mouth shut. The least I can do is not throw up in his car.

Either I'm not being as subtle as I'd like or Doyle's a lot sharper than I give him credit for. He slows right down, just under the speed limit, and starts driving really carefully. It's not that I don't appreciate it, because I really do. The movement of the car is playing merry hell with my insides. But it takes me off-guard. I don't know if I would've thought of it if our positions were reversed.

I suddenly realise Doyle's been chatting away. I look at him and try to focus. But the world is tilting dangerously, and I feel like I'm either going to slide out of the car or into his lap any minute.

"Nearly there, sunshine," he says, looking over at me briefly. I pull a thin smile, and he shakes his head with a laugh. "You look absolutely pathetic; you know that?"

I had a good idea, yes. Thanks, ever so, Captain Obvious. Any more wisdom you want to impart? No, it's not really fair to get annoyed at Doyle. After all, he could have left me to my own devices, and I'd still be sitting with me head down the bog. But I _hate_ being sick and useless.

"All right. You want to say something, mate, anything?" Doyle asks, frowning at me. "You're beginning to scare me now."

Why would he be scared? It's just a stomach bug, nothing serious. Better yet, I could ask him. "Why?" My voice sounds even worse now, my throat dry and sore from earlier. Could do with a Strepsil.

Doyle's watching the road, but he stops frowning and smiles. "Well, you usually bitch constantly when you're sick. Was beginning to think there might be something really wrong with you."

I don't bitch, do I? Not too much, I mean. I'm the strong, silent type.

Eh? Doyle's frowning again. What did I do now? Think he expected me to argue, but I'm too damn out of it to care what he calls me.

"Maybe I should take you to the doctor?" He looks me over. I know he's definitely expecting a response now.

I don't get sick often, which is good, 'cause I've spent time in some of the most disease-ridden hellholes known to man. God knows what I could have come down with if I hadn't inherited my grandmother's fortitude. The irony, of course, is that the only time I ever knew her to get sick was the time that killed her. Hopefully, that's not the case with me today.

I don't even realise we've arrived until Doyle tries to get me out of the car. I seem to have gone into "pause mode," as my nan would call it, staring blankly and not thinking about anything at all. The sunlight is suddenly much, much brighter than it should be, and… this is _not _my flat.

I recognise it now: most definitely my GP's office. I have to go every so often to stay registered on the NHS, don't you know, and the doc's not a bad old stick, really.

I think Doyle's taking my inability to coordinate my movements as reluctance, because he's calling me a stubborn bastard. I don't think he realises that I _want_to be in there. Maybe the doc will give me something so I can die quietly.

My attempt at getting out of the car results in my collapsing to my knees. Very dignified, I must say. And, for the second time today, Doyle has to scrape me off the floor.

I really was fine this morning, honest. I only had toast and jam for breakfast; so how could I be this sick? I'm aching all over… and shivering. This is a nightmare. I try to help Doyle as much as can, but that's not much. He manhandles me into the waiting area and dumps me into a seat. Then, he goes to talk to the receptionist.

My eyes won't stay open. Doyle's got me stood up again, and I'm shaking so badly I can hardly move. I can hear people speaking to me, but I don't know what they're saying.

Suddenly my legs collapse, and Doyle can't hold me up. What's happening to me? I can't be that sick; I can't be. It's impossible. I don't understand this. I can't… I can't breathe. Oh, God, I can't breathe… I can't breathe… I can't breathe. Help me, Ray, somebody! Please, don't let me die… not like this. God, Ray, I'm so sorry. Please, please help me… I can't breath… I can't….

**(TBC)**


	2. Chapter 2

**12.30 p.m., Tuesday **

My partner's a bastard. I reckon that sounds unfair, seeing as he's lying here in a hospital bed with tubes pumping air up his nose 'cause he can't do it himself. But I don't care if I'm being fair or not. Life is unfair. God is unfair. Everything's soddin' unfair.

It's not fair that I have to sit here angry and terrified. And it's not fair that Bodie has to lie there fighting for his life while the doctors do _nothing_ 'cause they don't know what's wrong.

They took a bunch of his blood and ferried it off somewhere with a fancy name. Honestly, I don't think I heard a word they said to me. Then, someone tried to make me leave. Said what Bodie had might be catching. Well, sod that, and sod them! A couple of hours ago I practically carried the bastard in. If it's catching, then I've gone and bloody caught it by now.

I had dinner at Bodie's flat last night. Some posh bird was coming over, and he wanted to make a fancy meal for her. Only Bodie doesn't leave stuff like that to chance. He does a trial run first, and I'm usually the guinea pig. Hell, I'm _always _the guinea pig. But I don't complain. Why should I? Every so often I get a free dinner, and it's usually pretty good. The prat can actually cook when he has a mind.

I reckon he presents the meal with considerably more finesse for the lady, like, rather than shoving the plate in her hands and saying, 'Here, get stuck into that, mate. If you die, then I'll know not to eat it." I suspect they don't drink larger with it, either.

But the dinner _was_ bloody good. Bodie can follow a recipe right enough or memorise it if he's out to impress. It's always a mistake to leave him to his own devices, though. Me, I'm spontaneous… creative. Doesn't always work, mind, but I like to experiment. Have trouble following recipes. I get impatient; start without reading it through first and mess up the timing. Anyway, the point is that I'm _not _ill, and he is. So, it couldn't have been the meal….

Which gets me thinking, "What did he have for _breakfast_?" I reckon that's good, 'cause if I don't keep thinking about stuff like that, then I'll have to start thinking about stuff like death and funerals and.… _Christ, concentrate Raymond. If Bodie could see you getting worked up like this, he__d rag on you all bloody afternoon. _

Thank God, he was too out of it to see me crying… _crying_when he went and got himself stabbed a few years back. He'd've never let me live that down. Well, he probably would have done. He's a great, soft pillock when he thinks nobody's watching -- at least, nobody but me.

Kittens, of all things. Give that idiot a bleedin' kitten, and he turns into a kid again. Sickening to watch, really. Of course, if any witnesses come round, he becomes the hard man again, "Mr Your-Kittens-Do-Not Interest-Me" mercenary bloke, while I sit there sniggering at his obvious act… and at the people who fall for it.

I used to be one of them, y'know. He can be pretty damn convincing sometimes. But it's too late, now. He's slipped up once too often round me, and I can see straight through him -- most of the time. I reckon good friendships need a certain amount of intentional blindness, anyway. _See past the faults, don__t we, sunshine? _

Eh! Now that's a good idea. That's what I'm gonna to buy him for a retirement present: a kitten. I bet he'll call it Golly or something, just to wind me up.

He better bloody get to retirement. He's got to be all right… because… well, because he's Bodie, my partner -- my best mate, if I'm honest. And he can't just die. What would happen to me if he did? I don't want another partner. I can't…. _Christ, Ray! Get a hold of yourself! Getting upset won__t helping anyone, you idiot. Stop being stupid and pull yourself together. _

Right. That's right. I was thinking about his breakfast. But, honestly, I don't think this is food poisoning. I get the feeling it's something far more serious. Bloody hell. No wonder I was such a good police officer; my detective skills are incredible.

Hmm. I think I stole Bodie's line there. But he won't mind this once, I'm sure. And I'd give anything right now just to hear him say it….

**(TBC)**


	3. Chapter 3

5 5.46 p.m. Tuesday

Well, now _that's_ interesting. "Some sort of compound," they said, "a_ poison_." As in, somebody poisoned my partner. And not just my partner, but three of the other lads, as well.

Turns out my detective skills are actually top-notch, thank you very much. Worked out that it was in the sugar all along. You see, my partner takes three sugars in his tea, and I have none. I've bloody well told him all that sugar would kill 'im one day. Didn't reckon it'd be quite like this, though. Any rate, now that the boffins've got the poison, they can make an antidote.

I'm feeling strangely calm all the sudden. No way is Bodie out of the woods yet, antidote or no, and just as important, someone poisoned the sugar in the_ break room_. Now, where's the sense in that, eh? That means that one of CI5, one of _us_, poisoned that sugar – poisoned the sugar and poisoned my _partne_r. So why am I standing here in the break room feeling so peaceful?

Bodie, sensible chap that he is, would have scarpered by now… 'cause I'm going to find whoever did this, and utterly _destroy_ 'em. Yeah! I'm going to enjoy this; I'm going to enjoy this a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

8

**8.22 p.m., Thursday, 5****th**** August**

I wasn't expecting to be found out so soon. All right, I wasn't expecting to be found out at all. I just wanted to pay back those smarmy bastards. Serves them right, you know?

Doyle's pacing around the interrogation room, and Cowley's looking at me across the table. I heard Bodie got it, some others too, but I didn't catch their names. Good! It's a shame Doyle doesn't take sugar, the self-important git.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Cowley asks.

Why? I snort. He wants to know _why_! Because I wanted to kill some of those cocky bastards, that's why. But I keep my mouth shut. There's no use incriminating myself.

I watch Doyle for a minute and try not to laugh. Oh, he's trying to be so tough… so _macho, _while his "partner" is dying. And when Bodie's gone, I'm going to laugh and laugh. I'm going to wipe that supercilious smirk off Doyle's face once and for all.

The pig glares at me. "What are you smiling at?"

Oh, bloody hell. Well, there goes playing it cool. So I shrug, just to wind him up.

Doyle starts towards me, but Cowley stops him with a raised hand. "You had your turn, 4.5."

Yes, he certainly did. Thought the mad bastard was going to break my arms. Actually, the way he looked, I thought he was going to break everything. I'm certainly not unharmed; my jaw still hurts something fierce, and I think the only thing standing between me and certain death is the Old Man in the chair opposite.

I'm beginning to feel uneasy. Perhaps I should have been less indiscriminate. Doyle is known to go nuts about this sort of thing. Bastard's already crackers if you ask me. But this time he backs off.

The Old Man has his dog on a tight leash today. I suppose I should be grateful. Doyle obviously wants to take me apart.

"Simon?"

My attention is drawn back to the Old Man. He looks sad and tired today, like I've never seen him before. In fact, he looks, dare I say it, disappointed. I'm so deep in thought, I almost miss the fact he called me Simon.

"George?" Facetious little bugger, that's me.

The Old Man sighs. "Why did you do it, Simon?"

Old boy must be getting senile; he's repeating himself. I should have poisoned his sodding whisky, instead.

"You were angry, weren't you? Angry about Summerfield?"

Hmm… Summerfield. He was a bastard. But now he's a _dead _bastard. Why would I be angry about that? I tilt my head slightly to get a better look at the Old Man. I can almost hear the cogs turning.

"My God," he whispers finally. "How many? How many others have you killed?"

Summerfield, Meller, Harmeston. Okay, I feel a little guilty about Harmeston because I never intended to kill him. But it doesn't really matter. I'm sure he'd have done something to earn it eventually. And, finally, Dewson. Well… no, finally Bodie. At least I hope he dies, because he thought he had me figured. Pegged me for crazy as soon as I walked in the door. Takes one to know one, I guess.

Doyle… Doyle tries to find the best in everyone. Told his _boyfriend _once not to give me such a hard time. And he was right, too, 'cause I'm not crazy, just practical. But that doesn't save him from being an insufferable twat. Serve him right if Bodie dies. Just as good as getting both of them, come to think of it.

Then, suddenly, I have to smile -- no, grin. It's like the corners of my mouth are trying to escape my face. I can't help it.

Cowley looks at Doyle, who looks at me. I grin back at him, and he looks at Cowley. All pretty comical, really.

"How many, Simon?" Doyle says. "Please."

Please? _Please? _Is this the great Raymond Doyle saying, "please," to me? Ha! "Summerfield," I say slowly, "Meller, Harmeston, Dewson."

"Jesus Christ," Doyle breaths, glancing away.

"I didn't mean to kill Harmeston," I add, because I really didn't.

"Why?" Cowley asks again. He sounds a hundred years old.

"Because I could," I say. And that's the truth.

**(TBC)**


	5. Chapter 5

**9.45 a.m., Monday, 16****th**** August**

I feel like I've been run over by a truck -- a bloody, great truck with bloody great tyres, about 30,000 of them. But I can finally breathe again on my own, and that's a good thing, definitely. No more machine breathing for me, no sir! I laugh and almost choke to death on the air coming in through my mouth.

"Bodie?"

I catch my breath again, and then notice Doyle in the doorway, a look of panic frozen on his face. I smile, and he visibly relaxes.

"Morning, sunshine," I say as cheerfully as I can with a voice that sounds like I've been drinking gravel.

He plonks himself into a chair, a stupid grin curving his mouth. I should really say something disparaging about him being soft an' all, but I can't bring myself to do it. After all, he's been here every day since I was admitted, probably with a face like a wet weekend for most of it. And if I'm honest, if it'd been him here, his whole body on the verge of total shutdown only to be suddenly and miraculously cured… well, I think I'd be wearing a silly grin, too. Guess I'm just as bad as he is, in the end.

"How are the other lads?" They got a small dose, about one spoonful each. Maybe I _should _cut dow-- Nah! Life's too short for bitter tea.

"They're a hell of a lot better than they were," Doyle replies, still smiling. "How are _you_ feeling?"

"Better." It's the truth, even if it's only half.

"Good," Doyle replies simply, and then he looks lost, like he can't think of another thing to say. Or maybe he's finding the right words but just can't say 'em.

"Hey mate?" I decide to spare him the embarrassment.

"Yeah?"

"Owe you one." That's about as close to a "thank you" as he's ever going to get, as long as there's breath left in my body… even if it's provided by a machine.

"Nah, I reckon we're about even," he says softly, sitting back and putting his feet up on the edge of my bed, ankles crossed. He clasps his hands behind his head and then closes his eyes, like he's going to sleep right there. Knowing Doyle, he just might.

"Want to know something else?"

Doyle cracks one eye open to look at me with a "please-continue" expression.

"I bloody told you he was a nutter, didn't I?"

"Takes one to know one, sunshine," Doyle replies. He looks decidedly smug, stretched out in the sunshine like a cat falling asleep.

I lie back in bed and listen to Doyle's breathing because it's the only sound in the room aside from my own. Then, I smile to myself.

One day I'm going to get a cat, and I'm going to name it Golly, just to wind him up.

**The End**


End file.
